Bikes!

 This is Pink Princess. Pink for short. Yes, I am one of those. I name my cars and I feel guilty when stuffed animals sit in my daughter’s closet all unloved and stuff. I know they’re not really alive, okay? But I’ve kept up the pretense with my daughter for so long that I can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness when I look into their old plastic eyes.

Lottery Husband (LH for short) and I have discovered we are too fat for regular bikes. Maybe we’re just too old. Plus let’s face it, my last bike was plain white. It didn’t even have a basket or bell or anything. So there she is: Pink. My Electra Cruiser. Riding this bike is like being seven years old again. It is joyous.

This morning we loaded up the bikes and drove out to Notre Dame, a short fifteen minute drive. There’s a picture of the Golden Dome. And yes I did take that picture with my iPhone while riding my bike. And yes, it was a bitch. I’m not the most coordinated individual to start with. So we will all just have to deal with the blur. But I didn’t fall, I’m still alive, and I didn’t have to go to Med Point. (This has happened to me before. Sadly I was barely moving at all when I wiped out. Of course Wapatui* was involved).

Notre Dame has a gorgeous campus and at 8:00 am it was peaceful – except for this annoying bike bell that rang every three minutes.  There’s a lake right on campus and a path all the way around the lake. Apparently all college campuses must have some water source and ducks. Lots of ducks. But don’t fret. I remembered to bring old bread. And yes, I carried it in my basket. (Love that bike).

I wish I had taken a picture of the utter mayhem that ensued when we revealed the Bread Mana from God. LH, my daughter, and I were SWARMED. We had ducks quacking, ducks fighting, and a few ducks employing the big eyed oh please me vibes. They were literally standing on our feet, the beggars. And then…we ran out of bread…and had to run for it! At some point THE FEAR subsided and I got my wits about me. Out came my trusty iPhone (love that phone).

 You can’t see it in the picture, but those little buggars are chasing us!

After our ride, we went out to breakfast. Of course we did. We are midwesterners after all. It’s practically a law to go out for breakfast at least once per weekend (Ron Swanson would approve). We went to our new favorite place. In case you’re wondering the answer is no: no I couldn’t eat all that and no I didn’t put the left over bacon in my purse like LH encouraged me to do. In his defense, he thought the dogs would like the bacon (so he says), but I wasn’t a big fan of greasing out the inside of my purse. Also, that is his Groundhog Day t-shirt. We worship at the altar of Bill Murray.

*What is Wapatui you ask? Wapatui is many things. It is an alcoholic drink. It is a collaborative effort. It is heaven. It is also evil. In a nutshell, all of your friends show up to your house with a clear alcoholic liquid of some type. The alcohol is ALL dumped in a large container of some sort. A whole butt load of fresh fruit and Spite are also dumped into the container and then the whole mix is allowed to sit. As new people show up, more alcohol and fruit is poured in. It is lethal, and unbelievably yummy. Eating the fruit will knock you on your butt.

But I am a lightweight. Once upon a time I had the alcohol tolerance of a rhino but now I ‘m a wuss. Half a glass of wine = zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. At my best friend’s daughter’s high school graduation they made Wapatui. Because it’s the law. And it tasted so good. I didn’t notice how snockered I was getting. I just kept drinking it. And eating the fruit. That damn fruit *shakes fist at Wapatui gods* Along about the middle of the night after I was drunk enough to not notice the mosquitoes feasting on my legs, but before I was at the vomiting stage, we decided to go home. We lived in the same neighborhood and like the good samaritans we were, we rode our bikes down to the party so we wouldn’t add to the parking congestion.

You see where this is going already, don’t you?

LH decided we weren’t in any shape to ride bikes. And as luck would have it, he was absolutely right. Someone decided we should park our bikes in the neighbor’s driveway. I don’t know why. We were a bunch of adults who shouldn’t be making any decisions, all of us tricked into imbibing a lot more than we ever would. So out I went, BAREFOOT, to get my bike. In case I haven’t already told you, LH is smarter than I am. He walked his bike to the other driveway. Me? Nope. I wanted to ride my bike over there. (It was the alcoholic fruit. Never eat alcoholic fruit). This bike wasn’t like Pink. Pink’s pedals are nice and smooth. No spikey things. So I got on my bike – my old bike, my arch nemesis with the SPIKEY pedals.

YOUCH!

When the doctor at Med Point the next morning asked me how fast I was going LH hysterically answered that I was going 0 miles per hour. Yes. I wiped out on my bike and I wasn’t even moving. That, my friends, is the lethal combination of talent and Wapatui.

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